SaltyJesus posted:

Could somebody try to explain the appeal of Doctor Who. Is it the standard nerd thing where length is mistaken for depth?

SaltyJesus posted:

Could somebody try to explain the appeal of Doctor Who. Is it the standard nerd thing where length is mistaken for depth?

Acne Rain posted:

Some people like different things than other people.

If you can't understand this you are worse than any nerd.
just about everyone I encounter is in to some lame thing or another like old sitcoms or abba records and I'm no social butterfly, how anyone can be an adult and not understand their tastes are not an objective measure of quality do you just never talk to anyone or something

GOTTA STAY FAI posted:

Everybody likes some lame-rear end poo poo or another, but decent people don't shove it in everyone's faces all the goddamn time and/or make it part of their identity.

WET BUTT posted:

was i picked on in middle school? hmm let me think
* Weighed 750 pounds
* Parents were both Charles Manson (long story)
* Wore a bath robe to school every day
* Had the word "homo" instead of a mouth

the heebie-gbs posted:

chitin (\ˈkī-tən\) does not rhyme with hidden. infrateal you slantrhyming scrub

Infrateal posted:

my verse, much like my ballsack, dangles free as the wind

the heebie-gbs posted:

the wind, like my ballsack, caresses your face

Infrateal posted:

my ballsack, unlike your face, has been caressed by something other than wind

the heebie-gbs posted:

my wind, unlike your ballsack, has never broken loudly in public to the horror of everyone around me

SaltyJesus posted:

Let's stop this derail here with some classics.


---

SaltyJesus posted:

Could somebody try to explain the appeal of Doctor Who. Is it the standard nerd thing where length is mistaken for depth?

Rhymenoserous posted:

Mindless adventure romp entertainment. If I want to sit down, disengage my brain and have fun Dr. Who works well for that. But I'm not going to pretend the average episode has any more depth than a pudding cup.

And anyone who calls themself a whovian is a jackass.

glowing-fish posted:

Well, I don't live in suburban Indiana and do most of my socializing at megachurches and Olive Gardens, so pretty often, actually. I mean, my first question isn't "what sites are you a member of", but when I am talking to other young, net-savvy people, we sometimes discuss websites we frequent.

TetsuoTW posted:

Infrateal vs. heebie-gbs is a classic for the ages.

naem posted:

Yes let's fill in the bay, the thing that makes the bay area pretty and desirable

naem posted:

WELCOME TO AREA

pentyne posted:

The "faggots are bundles of sticks" was my favorite.

quote:

in world war I primitive tanks carried bundles of sticks on the front of their hulls which they dropped into trenches so they could cross them and the term for these objects is "fascines" but they could also be termed "enormous faggots" and basically if a wwI tank ever goes to mars and needs to cross the Valles Marineris it should strap heebie-gbs to the front of its hull

quote:

heebie-gbs suffers from acute pubic trichotillomania with associated trichophagia and has already clearcut his own junk so hes reduced to prowling public showerdrains for clotted pube whorls, a shaker of sea salt in one hand and chopsticks in the other

GOTTA STAY FAI posted:

You can have the vet shoot lasers into your dog's butthole to remove them if they get impacted too often.

Seriously, friggin' lasers.

In the butthole.

We still remove impacted wisdom teeth with what is essentially a hammer and chisel but veterinary technology has advanced to the point where we can go all G.I. Joe on our dog butts to make them more comfortable

davidspackage posted:

I like the idea of a vet shouting YOOOOO JOE while blasting dog butts with lasers. Maybe if you hold your ear up to the dog's butt, you'll hear a little high pitched voice scream RETREEEEEAAAT

Babe Magnet posted:

Tell us more about how you hear "retreat" when you approach your dog's butt

MY NIGGA D-LINK posted:

Anonymous Confessor posted:
Once many years ago I posted on GBS about this girl in a wheelchair that I met in college. She was asian and cute and being in a wheelchair brought out these protective instincts in me. My thread about her blew up and was really popular and it made me super uncomfortable having goons always asking about her in that thread and completely un-related threads. So I lied and said we weren't together anymore.

That wasn't true though, and we actually almost got married. After a few years of dating, we were in bed together and she was sleeping and I was really turned on. Our sex life was pretty non-existent because she didn't have any feeling in her vagina, so we only had sex rarely, most often it was her giving me a blowjob. But this had all petered out over the last few months.

So I was feeling really turned on and I had always wanted to have anal sex, so this one night I couldn't stop myself. I lubed up my penis and slow put it into her butt. She couldn't feel it so she didn't wake up, and it turned me on more than anything to feel like I was doing something forbidden without her knowledge. I came almost instantly in her butt.

Over the next two weeks I proceeded to gently caress her butt every night after she was asleep, becoming more and more rough as she continued to not wake up. But then something unimaginable happened. She started complaining about having anal incontinence. She went to the doctor and the doctor didn't know what had changed, and said she'd probably just have to wear diapers.

I was too scared to tell her the truth, and so ashamed that I ended up breaking up with her. She probably thinks it was because she had to start wearing diapers, but I know the real reason.


tl;dr goon fucks his crippled asian gf in the pooper after she fell asleep bc she couldn't feel until she suddenly complained about making GBS threads herself when she hadn't before

Triticum Guzzler posted:

I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you, but I kind of want it a bit less than I want to get away with committing one of the most heinous crimes possible towards someone who trusted me on a basis so regular that turds began to immediately drop from their throat directly onto their wheelchair. It's a real PS4 vs Xbox One situation.

Triticum Guzzler posted:

PRIEST: Do you take this amalgam of every single one of the Burger King Kids Club Mascots at once to be your lawful wedded wife?
COOL GBS GOON: [in rodney dangerfield voice] Lawful I'm not so sure about but after 11PM I take what I can get

Triticum Guzzler posted:

GBS GOON: [viewing disabled anus through a high tech pair of binoculars] THis is Snake. I'm in front of the disposal facility...
A VOICE IN HIS HEAD THAT URGES HIM TO COMMIT CRIMINAL ACTS, I THINK IT'S THE UNCONSCIOUS LEAKING IN TO THE CONSCIOUS, WHAT JUNGIAN THEORY CONSIDERED TO BE THE CAUSE OF SCHIZOPHRENIC AND SCHIZOTYPAL SYMPTOMS: Excellent, Snake. Shame hasn't slowed you down one bit.

Triticum Guzzler posted:

VEGETA IN A WHEELCHAIR: Perhaps if you were raping me in the anus 100 times nightly, I might become fecally incontinent. But 10? I don't even feel it.
NOCTURNAL GBS RAPIST: [open mouthed anime gasps]

WeaponGradeSadness posted:

Triticum Guzzler is on fire today:

(For context, first post is from the anonymous confessions thread in GBS)

WeaponGradeSadness posted:

Triticum Guzzler is on fire today:

(For context, first post is from the anonymous confessions thread in GBS)

Chichevache posted:

Jesus christ those were outstanding. :

Wax Dynasty posted:

The person that did this was German, and American norms about race are not universal.

Erebus posted:

Good thing Germany's never had trouble with race.

WeaponGradeSadness posted:

Triticum Guzzler is on fire today:

(For context, first post is from the anonymous confessions thread in GBS)

dreadnought posted:

So, I ran across this the other day and got a little depressed.

cyberia posted:

Is the 'female-lead spiderman spinoff' logo really a pair of breasts in front of a web?

Frostwerks posted:

Does anyone have that LF post with the babies? The one where the announcer who i think is an uncle sam type figure yells kill baby, kill.

Infrateal posted:

ok now its time for everyone's favorite gameshow GUESS THE SUCKLING'S PROVENANCE with your host, Unnnnnnncle SAM!

*crowd whoops n jiggles*

Uncle SAM: HOW Y'ALL DOIN' TONITE??!?!

*crowd whoops it to the nth degree*

Uncle SAM: Oh say can you see the fine croppa crappin' crawlers we pro-cure-ated para ti-i mean PARTY! time to PARTTTAY!

*crowd vocalizes all festive-like*

(Uncle SAM walks over to row of gleaming, oversized silver dish lids and begins lifting them up, revealing BABIES. Dish number ONE holds a beige baby with brown hair an insouciant smirk. Dish number TWO holds a pink baby in an orange jumpsuit with "heartbreaker" written on one sleeve and "ballbreaker" on the other. The baby is cooing disdainfully. Dish number THREE holds a deep umber baby who seems reluctant to emerge from under the dish. He reaches into his diaper and withdraws a tiny silver thimble, placing it on his head. Now he is ecstatic.)

Uncle SAM: And laaaaast but not leeeeast...

(Uncle SAM lifts lid number FOUR, revealing a green baby sitting stock-still. Her eyes are lavender and her diaper is a leaf.)

*crowd gasps*

(baby number FOUR turns to face audience. Tentatively, her eyes unfurl. They were buds before but now they are flowers. The many anthers are moving, tracking each audience member individually. She gurgles.)

*crowd hoots and honks*

Uncle Sam: Y'all know how this is gonna shake down. Three of these whippersnappers are 110% Purebred Heartland Homehearth Whitebread Cornfed Hee-Haw Dogsled Diaper Wiper Wittle Citizens and the other is... is a...

(Visible perspiration breaks out on UNCLE SAM'S forehead. Tributaries of sweat meet on the tip of his great hook nose and pool into a dangling globule. The audience is clearly enraptured by the process)

*crowds murmurs n mumbles, musical 'merican musings*

(the sweat globule has dripped away, leaving a nubbin of deposited minerals at the end of UNCLE SAM'S nose. His forehead is sweating buckets now, construction-orange hydraulic limbs emerge from his hairline and dump actual buckets of sweat on his face. As droplet upon droplet cascade from his snout, the miniature stalactite swells and takes form. In mere moments it has become a mighty SALT EAGLE.)

*crowd jumps for joy*

SALT EAGLE: _{keeaw? keewaaw???} KYYYAAHH!!!!

(the creature shakes free from UNCLE SAM'S nose, spreading its sodium pinions in rapturous, raptorous flight. It orbits UNCLE SAM'S head and he quickly stops sweating, seeming to take courage from the gyrations of his nasal gargoyle)

Uncle SAM: Yes. The other baby... is a... *gulps* a... a MONGREL FORINNER

*crowd recoils and screams. many women faint. many men draw their weapons and feint at invisible enemies. many of the weapons have fainted. droopy cutlasses flounce harmlessly through the air*

Uncle SAM: And it's UP TO YOU! It's UP TO YOU to protect AMAIRICKUH, to suss out the interloper, to sit in the driver's seat of teh justice bus and fingerbang LADY LIBERTY until she skeets so hard she drops her torch! And the torch lands on the evil baby!

(Curtains behind the stage are pulled open, revealing the CrocsTM-shod feet of the STATUE OF LIBERTY. The babies stir restlessly as they notice their silver platters have been positioned at the center of a giant red X.)

Uncle SAM: YES! We have to... we have to REDRAW OUR BLOODLINES! IN PERMANENT MARKER! A vile force beyond the veil, beyond the vale surrounding our SHINING CITY ON A HILL, an insidious foe fumbles at the zipper of our hoodie and is trying to MAKE IT TO SECOND BASE with our MOTHERLAND!

(The babies look confused. Baby number ONE is blowing a spit bubble in the shape of a question mark. His insouciant grin appears forced. Baby number TWO has pooped her jumpsuit. Baby number THREE attempts to crawl away, but it becomes apparent that all of the babies have been implanted with MAGNETS, and the silver platters were really thinly-plated PIG IRON. Baby number FOUR is nervously farting, but the farts are butterflies, and attempt to pollinate her eyes. She swats them away and continues watching the audience. Beneath each baby a ruddy glimmer is reflected on the platter, as of a very large fire very high above.)

Uncle SAM: So it's UP TO YOU! Three of these cuddle dumplins are stuffed with real Angus beef! One is filthy loving dogmeat! GOLDEN RETRIEVERS. THEY EAT GOLDEN RETRIEVERS. Clap and make an earthquake because you are the continental shelf because you hold the country in YOUR HANDS! NOW: YOU MUST CHOOSE.

*crowd whispers among themselves. they steal glances at each of the babies in turn.*

Baby Number ONE: a goo?

*crowd confers and gesticulates. consensus is reached around a counterclockwise thumb-rotating motion.*

Baby Number TWO: ha bah bah?

*crowd makes furious shooing and beckoning motions. a woman's voice blares outraged syllables over the hubbub. two men eye each other as if hankerin to wrastle. finally, the crowd settles into a sullen decision, as a flatulent dog kicked off its owner's bed may settle onto a patch of carpet*

Baby Number THREE: maf oof. mf. ahh!

*crowd enters pitched frenzy of argument. insults are hurled and also objects. wrastling is commenced. factions coalesce from the chaos, bunkers are improvised, the crowd is poised for an interminable war of attrition when STATUE OF LIBERTY is spotted tapping an enormous toe. An armistice is brokered. The crowd decides.*

Baby Number FOUR: [editor's note: we cannot reproduce the sound which emanated from baby number FOUR. our phonetics are wholly inadequate. we suspect that if every writing system and musical notation developed in the history of civilization were deployed simultaneously, we would still face this shortcoming. we suspect that if every mark made on paper, every keystroke, every arc of piss that scalds a snowbank, if all of this were recorded for ten thousand years and this record were to be considered as a single symbol--baby number FOUR would crawl through the ages, tiny knees flailing, gaining purchase through adventitious moments of friction, seconds buckling under her tiny weight, and she would appear to our descendants in the sanctum of their archive and she would laugh, and that sound would send each molecule of air on a unique euphonious trajectory, galvanizing the atmosphere, reverberating, and the folly of millenia would become apparent and immaterial simultaneously because who could care about all that when each tiny hair of the cochlea is singing a different and more splendid song.]

*crowd eyes one another. crowd arches eyebrows. crowd nods.*

Uncle SAM: SO... ye made up ye minds? such dire deliberations deserve ample ticks to tock in but... *gestures at STATUE OF LIBERTY, who can be seen towering through multiple strata of cloud, idly tossing her TORCH.*

*crowd utters an affirmative*

(Babies are fidgeting)

Uncle SAM: ARE YOU READY TO BURN AND CRUSH A BABY??!??

*crowd w00ts a lil. just a lil.*

Uncle SAM: ARE YOU READY TO SAY, THESE THREE ARE REAL LIVE BABBEHS, AND THIS ONE IS A loving DEFECTIVE NONPERSON poo poo TURD CRAP FART!?!?!?

*crowd ventures a more solid w00t. crowd is pretty sure it wants to w00tle. w00t.*

(Babies are making clumsy signs at one another. Baby Number TWO is peeling off her poopy jumpsuit. She is tattooed with the same proclamations as her sleeves. Baby Number FOUR is farting continuously now, and letting the butterflies settle where they may.)

Uncle SAM: ARE YOU READY TO DROP A MILLION POUNDS OF BURNING ALASKA CRUDE FROM ORBIT! ARE YOU READY TO DRILL BABY DRILL TO KILL BABY KILL!

*crowd w00ts majestically, as SALT EAGLE w00ts in antistrophe*

(Baby Number ONE is blowing larger and larger spit bubbles, joining them into a congeries of salivary envelopes. Baby Number THREE has removed the silver thimble from his head and is obsessively twisting it in his chubby fists.)

Uncle SAM: ALLLL RIGHT! WHICH IS IT! WHICH BABY IS WITCH!

*crowd, unanimously, points at Baby Number ONE/TWO/THREE/FOUR; the specifics are irrelevant because the effect is the same*

Uncle SAM: YESS! YOU HAVE CHOSEN WISELY! NOW, LADY LIBERTY! LET FREEDOM RING!

(Far, far above, in trans-Neptunian space, somewhere out beyond the Oort cloud, in the ethereal calm of interstellar boredom, a torch--burning despite the complete lack of oxidizer--begins to accelerate. It is going to hit Earth, hit a red X, but first there will be a brief encounter with--

(The babies' frantic industry has produced a thing. Convoluted chambers of spit-bubbles warp along a hyperbolic plane and enclose a lepidoptiary of butt-erflies flapping furiously while at the center of the arrangement an orange jumpsuit is affixed by means of sticky, cloying poop to the underside of a great bubble and three babies hold the garment in one hand and the fourth baby--actually Baby Number THREE--with their other hand, because Baby Number THREE has dialed in a vector on his thimble and the spitship takes off, overcoming the MAGNETS, rushing upward like the lilt of a baby's coo--

(The TORCH is falling and the BABIES are rising. Are they on a collision course? Have the BABIES escaped? Are they all FORRINERS? Was Uncle SAM in collusion (of course?) Was the crowd really one person (of coarse?) What you need to keep in mind is that it doesn't matter--this is all a ridiculous scenario unfolding in one person's mind (originally mine but now, with completely different nuance,, your own). It's not a metaphor or an analysis, it's a ridiculous response to a ridiculous notion. If you really want my interpretation of the ending it's that the babies have escaped, they were all foreign, uncle sam knew it and knew they would escape, and the torch is going to explode into a beautiful fireworks display that will make the crowd forget all about the babies. You should forget all about the babies. I don't know how this post got so long. Whoops.)

that whole thread posted:

jesus christ Infrateal

Turtlicious posted:

Hey I posted a few months / a year back in this thread about some movies I've watched. I started to deconstruct books and thinking about media more critically, and I'd like to give them a second chance. Especially Aliens, because I recently found out I watched a completely different movie apparently.

What are the good versions of the Alien films, and which ones of them are worth watching?

Turtlicious posted:

I was 12.

Hat Thoughts posted:

What movie did you watch instead?

Turtlicious posted:

An episode of Veggie Tales I think.

manyak posted:

i wikipediad Dr who because i dont actually know what it is and found this cool sentence of the creators artistic vision

When Sydney Newman commissioned the series, he specifically did not want to perpetuate the cliché of the "bug-eyed monster" of science fiction.[73] However, monsters were popular with audiences and so became a staple of Doctor Who

manyak posted:

When Sydny Newman created the series, he specifically sought to create something that "did not suck, and was not fairly gay." [40] However, he was incapable of doing so.

Adaptive Systems posted:

- THE GREAT WAR -

My father’s mother recently died, in her late nineties, after two solid decades of fervent, daily,
devoutly Catholic prayer for release from her increasingly humiliatingly decrepit body. I
remember sitting with her in the dead of winter, in a lovely seafood restaurant, a few miles from
the Atlantic. It wasn’t too long before her mind went, and almost as if she knew she didn’t have
much time, she talked hurriedly, pausing only to sip her mineral water, and then returning to all
the wondrous things she had the great good fortune to witness, from hearing the news that Peary
had made it to the North pole, to actually seeing the Spirit of Saint Louis in person.

She remembered very keenly an afternoon spent doing the laundry in the alleyway with her
mother in the Irish ghetto of Philadelphia. While they washed, they each kept an eye on her two
younger brothers Frank and Joseph playing at war. A neighbor woman stopped in passing and
said that she thought it wasn’t proper, to let kids play at war, what with the American boys dying
over there, nowadays. And plus, it wasn’t Christian to encourage that sort of thing, now that we
knew how horrible it could be, what with the mustard gas and the machine guns.

My great-grandmother nodded, she understood perfectly. But, she said, since there was really no
danger of these children ever having to go to war, she couldn’t really see the harm in it. Might as
well let the little ones play, without scaring them by telling them that it wasn’t a game. She
thought it could hardly do any harm; everyone knew there wouldn’t be any wars after this one,
this war to settle all disputes, to settle the course of human civilization for the next millennia.
Humanity simply couldn’t afford it, and all the leaders of the Great Powers knew it, finally. The
Neighbor saw her point, and confided in her how she too felt so lucky to know that her children
would never have to sail off and fight in a distant land, but that she also felt guilty, knowing that
Missus O’Shea’s son had been born too soon for her to enjoy the same comfort.

Two decades later, my grandmother was living in San Francisco with her husband, a structural
engineer who quit his practice designing skyscrapers and went to work for the military designing
battleships. She heard the news of the Pearl Harbor attack while her husband was out boozing
with his floozies. He came home late, and she clutched at him in a fearful frenzy the instant he
came in the door. Assuming she was on again about his living in mortal sin and all that poo poo, he
slapped her in the mouth and called her a crazy bitch before passing out. She went out to the
bank that week, and remembered seeing all the pretty Japanese girls in the city all made up like
movie stars, but so scared they trembled and looked like they would burst into tears at any
moment.

And then, a few short years later, her brother Frank was leaning out of a tank hatch, not too far
from Berlin. He was in the middle of a small town, one that had been cleared of Nazis, listening
to an officer in the street, who was directing tanks forward. While he was trying to hear the
officer’s voice over the din of the engines, he caught a glimpse of a man appearing in the open
doorway of the ruined building across the street, and saw him instantly unleash a Panzerfaust
directly at the center mass of the tank that he precariously balanced from. The Panzerfaust
sparked across the street, and the officer, shouting orders, never seeing it coming, took it
squarely in the back. It exploded through him, sending a shower of shrapnel and flesh cascading
off the tank and through Frank’s torso, neatly slicing his left arm off just below the shoulder.

After the war, even with one arm, he was still able to find good factory work, and being a purple
heart helped, though not as much as you might think, given that everyone was busy trying to get
in on the rising tide and join the middle class. Frank’s brother Joseph spent the war doing
clerical, rear-echelon work. After the war, he became an accountant and did well for himself.
Each brother silently knew who had gotten the better end of the bargain.

Frank suffered a stroke in the bathroom at eighty. Three more the next week, and a drooling but
largely lucid death that I am sure he thanked his loving Catholic God he had lived long enough to
enjoy. Losing your arm as a kid teaches you a few things, I think. Like, “Better to die flat on your
back in bed than cut in half on the cobblestones,” and don’t let the liars fool ya, kid.

Everyone is sad to see the greatest generation go, and rightly so. The wars of the past century are
myths to us; we all want to draw near the old veterans sitting around the dimming campfire and
be regaled by the tales of their heroism, and fanaticize about the acts of courage we would have
been capable of, if only history had seen fit to grace us with the chance. The simplest of us
mourn openly for lack of an opportunity to prove ourselves, though most of us, even the most
decent, will find some similar longing if we search honestly enough .

But none of us is too eager to have been the wives of some of these heroes, trying to understand
why they could only sleep on the floors for years after coming home, or deal with them sinking
into Alzheimer’s, limping around the house shouting. Where are you? Where are you? Sergeant,
Donny’s in the street! Sergeant! Get out of my way you German bitch! Sergeant! Donny’s hit!
And none of us fantasize about being the mothers, getting the telegraph with the details of our
only child’s death. And none of us, honestly, is too eager to have died at Iwo Jima, no matter how
much fun Hollywood makes it look.

Instead we imagine what it must have been like, wearing bomber jackets, flak flying by on our
left and our right, having no fear, knowing we were as pure as Arthurian Knights. We relish the
thought of outflanking our enemy and taking vengeance for poor, poor Kowalski’s death,
because we always imagine it’ll be our best friend to go, and never us. We comfort ourselves
with the compliment that it will be us that stays coolly, crucially detached in the heat of battle
while the blood of our fellow teenagers is hacked brutally into our faces, between hideous
pleading sputters.

For some, the fact that I should merely pause to reflect upon these truths is disgraceful; a sign of
cowardice and shameful slander on the dead, if not outright treason. For them, for those brave
souls unencumbered by dread of slaughter, who weep not for broken cities, who see shallow
corpse-strewn puddles as a paths to glory, who see war coming to them as a sacred calling, a
chance to make prideful sacrifices and secure a lifetime’s worth of valor, for them I bring this
consoling reassurance:

Have no fear. There is still time to be a war hero. The Great War is still coming. It’s there, over
the horizon, and its sails are full with the wind that beats from the wings of the angel of history
on her endless journey to escape us.
That ghost ship rushes towards you every bit as fast as you could hope.
Faster than you might have wanted, in hindsight.

Assuming you get to enjoy that peculiar wisdom of the living.

Rashaverak posted:

I'm not quite sure what you mean - easier emotionally? Not much bothers me anymore, and the stuff that does isn't trauma, it's sexually abused children... and now that I work in a pediatric hospital I'm even becoming enured to that. People always want stories of blood, guts, and gore - but that's the mundane, boring reality of EMS.

The things that get to you, that reach you on a deeper, human level, well... It's the full arrest toned out at 0630, just before shift change, where you're cursing your bad luck, cursing your partner for always being late, and trying to find a reason why some other truck is closer to the call than you are. Where you walk to the house and hope it's an easy call and there's obvious signs incompatible with life, so you can get the hell out of there and back to your bottle at home.

Where you're greeted at the door by an old man who looks like he's at death's door himself, dressed in his sad little boxers clearly a decade old and his stained white nightshirt that his wife was too polite and too deeply in love to complain about... his shoulders stooped by age and the knowledge of what's to come. Where you walk through the entrance hallway, past pictures of children and grandchildren long since grown, past an aged and yellowing photo of a young couple deeply in love, she beaming in her wedding dress and he standing proud in his Army uniform - and into the bedroom of a couple who've been married to each other through poo poo and sunshine, for 60 years.

Her perfume and makeup is neatly arranged on the dresser below the flag they were given when their son never came back from Vietnam. He'd lined up her medication bottles in the order she'd take them every day, and his glasses sat nearby so he could read the large print on the labels. She didn't always remember to take them all, and for that matter neither did he, but every night before bed they'd tell each other "I love you" because it might be the last time they did... and today, it was.

You see all this, and you hardly notice the still, silent shape beneath the sheets.

He didn't bother to uncover her, because he knew.

He woke up, and he just knew. He knew in the same way I'd known when I opened the door and saw him standing there. He'd known this day would come but hoped it'd be him we saw in that bed. Hoped he wouldn't have to go through this but known it was coming. Not that it helped, of course. The man who'd charged that hill in Korea, who'd been shot and stabbed and goddamnit just got back up and kept loving going, was standing by the doorway to the bedroom they'd shared for half a century softly weeping.

You go through the motions, of course. You look for breathing and feel for a pulse, her skin already cold and pale, her neck already stiffening a bit. You see the the dependent lividity - the blood pooling in her skin and discoloring - but the coldly clinical words are little comfort. You say the words he knew were coming but that doesn't make it any easier. He's already stopped listening anyways. His eyes and his mind are far away, probably recalling what it felt like when he flipped that veil over and kissed her, or the secret night they'd shared six months before they were married by shotgun.

Thinking back to the walls of smiling children, you ask if there's anyone you can call for him. Surely, the kids they spent their life raising are going to descend upon him, taking away the heavy burden that now sits upon his shoulders.

They don't call anymore. They don't visit.

He gives you the number of her physician and the number of the funeral home where they picked out a plot a few years back when her health started to go downhill. You stay around as long as you can, standing by him as that van comes to take his wife away from their home for the last time, and eventually there's nothing left to do but leave.

You know.

A week after the funeral, when you get the call from an annoyed neighbor complaining about a bad smell, you know.

You go inside, because that's what you have to do, but you already know. Past the wall of children who no longer cared about anything except who was in the will, past the flag, past her perfume and makeup still sitting there in the same place, and find a still shape, laying in the other side of the bed.

You don't bother to uncover him, because you already know.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I'm sitting in a bar right now as I write this, trying to study for my calculus midterm so I can get the hell out of this profession, and I'm having to stop writing because I'm crying so hard. You get lots of strange looks, but they're par for the course. Some calls you forget before you even clear the hospital, and others will stay with you until you draw your last breath.

Cucking Mama posted:

everybody's trying to own a guy who set himself on fire

Ivor Biggun posted:

It's an instinctive response for the GBS hive mind

SplitSoul posted:

nah it's just a little good-natured roasting

Muttonchips posted:

They're not kicking him while he's down.

They're trying to put him out lmbo

Ted_Haggard posted:

first time the OP in a GBS thread burned himself before he even posted

WeaponGradeSadness posted:

Triticum Guzzler is on fire today:

(For context, first post is from the anonymous confessions thread in GBS)

RonMexicosPitbull posted:

The sad part of these is that either a goon raped a disabled person daily until they were more disabled. Or someone fantasized that they did.

Bertrand Hustle posted:

Goon sets himself on fire, posts a thread about it:

Keg posted:

gbs 2004: i accidentally almost burned myself to death trying to do severe property damage

gbs 2014: i accidentally almost caused severe property damage while trying to burn myself to death

Space-Pope posted:

*plays the jurassic park theme but w/ a bunch of wet slaps and farts and moans for the instruments*

little munchkin posted:

Here's a handy cheat sheet for winning Guess The Thread:

Description of someone's hosed up childhood - It's a thread about a retro video game
A crazy rant about social justice/politics - It's a pyf thread about video games
A long post that starts out normal but gets more unhinged and racist as it goes on - It's a thread about an mmo video game
A post about video games - It's either a Cinema Discusso post or a thread about politics
An unpromted list of someone's sexual fetishes - This is a tricky one, it could be a thread about pretty much any video game

SaltyJesus posted:

quote:

instead of fumbling after superficial red herrings like a deaf dolphin in a bullfight

quote:

remember that time you wore a GLOMP ME shirt to an anime convention and walked around all day inside an impregnable bubble of personal space

quote:

Yeah sorry im late i just got back from the hospital... no im fine, i had to take heebs-g. uh-huh. yeaaaaah. like this:

So im talkin to heebs about this and that and i mention ive been listenin to Cuban Linx 2 and he gets all excited and says "you know wha? I just finished an album myself!" and i was like, whoa, i didn't know you did... music? and he said "yeah bro yeah! i make raps!" and im thinking oh my god and he says "i was gonna wait till friday to let it drop but if you wanna come over i can give you a sneak peak" and im thinking oh my god i gotta hear this

so we drive over to his place and on the way im asking him about his raps and all and he starts doing these unbefuckinglievable freestyles, with like 5-second pauses between words and his eyebrows all knit together like he cracking codes, but they sounded like this:

"i got a grill so big if i were a dragon i could cook hot dogs on it/
i call my friends bro not dogg, dog gone it/
whenever anyone tries to rag me on it/
i tell them theyre dillwads and to stuff a wad of rags in it"

and im doing my best to look real serious while hes mean-muggin and FINALLY we get to his house and he goes in this back room and i hear all this thrashing around and im thinking, poo poo does he actually have boxes of cds back there, is he unpacking things, what's going on and finally i hear him yell "hey come give me a hand with this" so i go back there and he's got this... oh my god. this thing:

as far as i can tell its like a kiddy pool, but covered in aluminum foil. and like theres all these holes in it, with barcode stickers... from everything man. cut-out barcodes from frosted flakes taped in. in the holes. hundreds of them. and i realize he doesnt have boxes of cds, he MADE HIS OWN ALBUM, like, out of stuff. like he understands that cds are shiny and digital but beyond that... im not gonna try and figure this out man but just take my word for it, he was proud as poo poo of this thing

ok so it wasnt going to fit through the door, so he said he'd show it to me "in the studio," which was this lovely room covered in foil scraps and tapewads and like answering machines from 1994, and i said "but i can see it real good man" and he laughs and pulls out this laser pointer and says "bro. you need to HEAR it!" and then he gets this double-handed grip on the laser pointer right, juts out his tongue and aims and shoots the laser. and he starts moving the laser dot real slow and careful like in a circle, around the "cd". and im thinking oh my god he actually thinks this will make sound somehow. he thinks hes gonna make raps come out of that thing. and he starts moving the laser faster and faster and gets this look, man, like this horror shock, like wile e. coyote trying to run in midair.

and i tell him--im about to bust a gut trying not to laugh at his arts-and-crafts cargo cult poo poo--i tell him real gentle "hey man youre an innovator. you made the album, you can make a way to play it" and then i left and loving cracked up

but then that night like 12:30 am i get this call, from heebs number but hes not on the phone, i hear this wheezin, then finally i hear heebs real weak saying "bro... bro... the cd... can't breathe" so i rush over there and hes, ok, hes in his bedroom, theres a huge hole in the ceiling, the ceiling fan is on top of the cd, and the cds on top of heebs... he loving tried to duck tape his cd to a ceiling fan so it would spin. and it all fell on him and broke two ribs.

i couldnt keep myself from laughing... and hes laying there all covered in plaster wheezing at me all angry like "fuhhc hayooo bbro" and its makin me laugh even harder. i felt kinda bad for encouraging him but man... what was he thinking